A Shoe In
by lilsherlockian1975
Summary: Prompt Fill: Fluff, maybe smut : Molly gets a pedicure. Sherlock discovers he has a bit of a foot fetish. - @shadowyqueenbeard - Mummy conspires. Molly simply exists. Sherlock gets distracted. I insult an entire state. -One Shot-


**Prompt fill for holidaysat221b:**_ Fluff, maybe _smut :_ Molly gets a pedicure. Sherlock discovers he has a bit of a foot fetish. - _shadowyqueenbeard

_It's like this was made for me! I do so love feet (it's not weird! I went to nail tech school! Get your heads out of the gutter) There's a smattering of angst in this, but it's quickly resolved, have no fear. __Huge thanks to MizJoely for all her help with this one. I've been waaaay off my writing game lately and needed some extra support. ___I didn't quite make it to smutsville on this, sorry, but it is pretty suggestive. So that** T** is a very strong **T**, leaning toward M. Be warned.  
__

__I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~__

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This is truly not the best time for him to be distracted. He should be on full alert, his attention should be on his surroundings, deductions should be flowing at light speed. He knows this with every fibre of his being, but Sherlock cannot stop staring at _Molly Hooper's_ _feet_.

She giggles, drawing his eyes upwards. The distraction is momentary but he can only see part of her profile, mostly the back of her head. Quickly, his attention is drawn to her toes once again. They glisten in the afternoon sunlight. Red. _Sparkly _red, even. Molly's toes are painted _red_. Not some bright, garish shade - he wouldn't call it scarlet or candy apple. Nor is it too dark. Not wine or maroon or burgundy…

He hears someone say his name in an angry whisper but it's distant and, frankly, annoying. Molly's toes are far more interesting. Besides, he feels like he is just about to figure it out. _Carmine? Not quite cardinal,_ but he's getting closer. His pathologist moves three feet to the left and he moves with her. Must keep those feet in his line of sight…

"_William!" _

Oh, there it is again and this time it's much harder to ignore as it's accompanied with a harsh, yet stealthy, pinch to waist (the woman knows all of his weak spots, always has!). Though he jerks and winces, his eyes never leave Molly's toes as he answers, "_What,_ Mother?" a bit too aggressively. He'll pay for that later, he's sure. The tiny, yet restrained, intake of air confirms that he will be getting a classic _Viola Holmes talking to_ at some point in the near future.

"You're supposed to be _mingling_." She leans in closer and he can feel her breath on his neck; can smell the sherry she's drinking, mixing with the same peach and spice of the _Mitsouko _she's been wearing since time immemorial. He will always associate that fragrance with repression and guilt (for something he didn't understand when he was younger, but does now).

"I am, Mummy," he says, eyes still focused least he lose Molly in the crowd of well-wishers. "If Mrs Russberry stole your favourite pashmina, I'll find out." Sherlock doesn't care the slightest bit about the damn pashmina. He doesn't really think his mother does either and he'd said as much when she had phoned him about this… gathering. '_Your father bought it for me on our last trip to Branson!' _she'd indignantly replied, as if he were insulting all their relatives back to King Richard the 1st. _Ah, yes, an authentic Branson, Missouri pashmina. How foolish of me!_ She's got ulterior motives, of that there is no doubt. The contrived pashmina thievery is flimsy at best, especially for Mummy. _That's _what he should be deducing and had prepared himself accordingly. It is always a good idea to be on guard where his mother is concerned. Then a certain pathologist had arrived, with those lovely little red...

"Hmm…" Mummy moves away from him but just a bit. "I'm not sure you're up for it today, son. You've spent the entire time staring at Miss Hooper's _feet_, after all."

His head jerks to his left. Has he really been so obvious? Well, Mummy is quite observant. "I have no idea to what you are referr…"

"It's closer to carnelian than any other colour, but you're going to have to ask her what it's called. Nail varnishes tend to have odd names nowadays," she says with a judgmental look (_ie: _the raised eyebrow and thinned lips of reproach) before leaving him.

_Damn! I almost had it!_ Well, he did get his brilliant mind from his brilliant parents, after all, can't really complain too much. _What?!_ He's lost her. She's so tiny that she has just slipped away from him while his mother was busy spoiling his deductions.

A thorough scan of the garden provides him with nothing besides two cheating spouses, an heiress with a drug habit (but those are a dime a dozen) and Mrs Russberry (who's unfortunately _not _wearing his mother's precious pashmina but rather a jumpsuit type thing meant for a woman at least thirty years her junior). She's talking with the local parish priest who is so far past drunk, he's telling the bawdiest joke Sherlock's ever heard. Russberry is laughing so hard that she's about to pop right out of her ill-fitting out-fit. With a roll of his eyes, he heads into his parent's cottage. Molly and her delightful toes must be in here somewhere.

The sitting room and kitchen are empty but for a couple of servers from the catering company. They're rushing out, trays of nibbles in hand, and pay him no mind. He finds Molly in the parlor, holding a photo in one hand and a glass of punch in the other. The smile on her face is enough to make his heart clench.

She hasn't noticed him yet, hasn't adopted the look of uncomfortable rigidness that she's worn since _that day _and _those words_. Frankly, he's more than a little surprised she accepted his mother's invitation given their recent interactions (or lack thereof). Avoidance has become Molly's means of dealing with the elephant in the room and like the coward that he is, Sherlock has allowed that to become their new norm.

_Of course, _he thinks with sudden clarity and an uncomfortable feeling of being had. _Well done, Mummy._ That mystery, at least, is solved. Not much of a mystery, all things considered but really, it should have been fairly obvious. His mother is a born meddler and she _could _have noticed the rift that has formed between himself and Molly since the events at Sherrinford. That, or she might have been informed by her second lieutenant. Which, he decides, is the likely scenario. _The brolly brandishing bureaucrat!_

"Goodness, Sherlock!" Molly softly exclaims, pulling him from his alliterating. "You startled me… I didn't hear…" She looks down at her feet.

She's spilt punch on those perfect little toes (and sandals and Mummy's rug, but he doesn't care much about the latter two). "Hold still, Molly. I'll get a towel." He hurries back to the kitchen, dodging caterers in the process, to grab one of his mother's 'cleaning towels' (no need to further anger the woman!) and a nicer hand towel. After wetting the corner of the nice one, he returns to his pathologist. Molly reaches out for the towels but Sherlock waves her off as he bends down, kneeling at her feet to clean up the small spill.

"Sherlock, what are you…?"

"Just a moment, Molly." Using the 'cleaning towel', he wipes the sticky sweet liquid off of her foot and shoe first, pausing for only a moment to appreciate his nearness to her before moving on to the few drops that fell on his mother's rug.

"Will it stain?" she asks.

Though he knows very well that she's asking about the rug, he feigns ignorance as he finishes cleaning the antique. It won't stain and he's enjoying himself far too much to worry over something so trivial. "Of course not." Moving back to her sandals, he pretends to fuss over them, indulging himself a moment longer. _Just a moment..._ "They're not porous." He's fairly sure they're made of some kind of faux leather material.

"No, Sherlock, I mean your mother's..." she starts but he's not having it.

"Rug? She's got lots of rugs." And then he makes the mistake of looking up. Bent down on one knee, he holds Molly's right foot in his hand as he looks up the length of her. From his vantage point, she appears even more elfin-like than usual. But she's _not _her usual self today, by any means.

A touch of shadow on her eyes. Glossy lips. Rosy cheeks that could be credited to the warm temperature outside, though he's doubtful. Too many other changes to not assume she's also wearing blush. _Silly woman,_ he almost smiles at the thought, she doesn't need the help of cosmetics to pink her cheeks. He's accustomed to her wearing makeup - hasn't insulted her lips in years, thank God, John Watson and Molly herself for _that _small personality improvement! - but this is somehow different. There's something effortless in the way she's put together. The dress, the shoes, the… bloody hair!

She's wearing her hair down and it's shorter now than he's ever seen it. She's also done something with the colour. It's more blonde than brown. He noticed that earlier, of course, but now he cannot stop staring. Red toes and blonde hair. _Where's my Molly gone?_ he wonders.

Holding out her hand, she looks at him expectantly. Oddly, it takes Sherlock a full two seconds to realise that she wants the damp towel. This too he waves off as he finally manages to pull his eyes from her this new version of His Molly, causing a frustrated huff to come from above.

"My foot's still sticky. I need to clean it," she says, wiggling her toes.

He almost laughs but manages a smile at the toes in question instead. A good thing given their currently strained relationship; she's likely to take offence if he's not careful. "And I shall remedy that for you forthwith, m'lady." Picking up the damp towel from where he'd draped it over his bent knee, he starts cleaning off the sugary punch.

"Ah, thanks, _Ser _Sherlock."

_Good, she's lightening up._ He's not sure why that's important, but it is. This new blonde haired, red toed Molly Hooper is… intriguing. _As if that's something new?_ he hears himself ask. And of course the answer is no, it's _not _new and it's _not _her damn hair - that happened in stages, gradually getting shorter and shorter over the past several months - she's always confused him. _Always. Bloody always_.

Having long since finished awaying the stickiness, Sherlock is well aware that he's just perving a good long look at her lovely feet at this point but he can't take his eyes off of them. Small and soft, they fit well in the cheap sandals. _They'd fit better in my hands._ The thought causes a chill to light up his spine and his left hand to move from its safe position on the floor to the back of her calf, near her knee.

He knows there are conversations to be had, explanations to be given, apologies to be issued. He knows this but cannot for the life of him forestall his hand from touching her; it seems almost impossible.

"Sh-Sherlock…" he hears, perhaps an admonishment, but he still doesn't stop. His hand glides down her smooth leg to wrap around her ankle in a gentle hold, causing Molly to gasp. "We should…" She inhales deeply. "We should talk. We're supposed to..."

"So that was her game, was it?" he asks, knowing it for the truth. Poor Molly never stood a chance against the likes of Viola Holmes. The woman is diabolical. He drops the towel, bringing his right hand into play. Drawing the tip of his index finger over her big toe. "You had a pedicure recently. Today, I'd wager."

"Yes."

He expected the enamel to be bumpy, considering the glitter, but it's smooth to the touch. So he touches each little toenail in turn. "You had time whilst the colour was setting on your hair." It's a statement, not a question - he can smell the ammonia even from his position on the floor - and Molly knows him well enough not to dignify it with a response.

Having finished inspecting the polish, Sherlock runs his finger over the top of her foot. A soft sigh comes from above and he almost looks up but he can't. If he looks back up at her he's lost. If he sees her once again, from his vantage point - she'll no doubt be flushed, possibly biting her bottom lip - he will lose the tenuous hold on his failing control. He _cannot _look up. "We're supposed to talk? So talk," he says and he knows he sounds arrogant but with his defenses down, he's forced to use whatever tool he can feebly grasp at the moment.

Several seconds pass, almost a minute before Molly speaks. "Can we sit?"

"I'm fine here," he quickly replies. Then defiantly he adjusts his position, moving his other knee to the floor and sitting back on his heels, unconcerned as to how it might look. Actually, he knows exactly how it looks; he simply doesn't care.

A huff of annoyance follows and she wiggles those damnably red toes again. "What's so fascinating about my feet all of a sudden?"

That's a question he can't possibly answer without unleashing an entire bucket of worms. Talk. Yes, they should be talking. _Then get your fucking hands off of her._ But somehow he cannot force himself to stop. Instead, he moves his left hand an inch higher and asks, "What's this colour called?"

A soft but derisive laugh comes from the woman. "I'm…Yeah, I'm not telling you that."

And isn't that curious, which only makes him _more _curious. A wicked thought enters Sherlock's mind and once it does, it refuses to leave him.

There are things he knows about the woman whose foot he holds in the palm of his hand. Things that would likely _unravel _her were he to utilise them as weapons of war.

Feeling uncharacteristically generous, Sherlock only lightly strokes the small portion of her arch that he can reach without actually removing her sandal. Then saying, "I could _make _you tell me, you know…" he applies a bit more pressure, causing her foot to jerk.

"You - you wouldn't…"

She catches on quickly. _Good_, he thinks with a smirk, and grips her ankle a bit tighter, just in case she attempts to escape. He really wants the name of her nail varnish. Tickling her instep again causes a burst of giggles from above. He's tempted to look up, to see her smile. It's been too long since she had smiled for _him_. The last appearance of that smile happened right after Sherrinford when she stopped by to see the repairs to the flat. The whole moment was quickly ruined when he opened his mouth to speak, to… well, there were things that needed to be said; he had actually planned - prepared his words carefully, for once. Because Eurus was right about one thing: emotions _were _complicated and he didn't want to lose Molly. He'd already lost so much. But he never got the chance. A shadow passed over her face as though she'd known what he was about to say, her smile vanishing, she shook her head. _Not ready, _he had thought, as Mrs Hudson thankfully interrupted with biscuits and chatter.

So he doesn't look, doesn't indulge. Besides, he's got some important business with this foot and he must stay focused. One handed, he unbuckles the sandal and slips it off. Oh, she fights him a bit, protesting as he works. Once the shoe is gone, he dispenses with the niceties altogether, tickling the sole of her foot with abandon. He thinks she must be holding onto the mantel for balance, even as she's trying to wiggle her foot out of his hands. It doesn't work; he's stronger and she's laughing hard now, gasping for breath as she begs for reprieve.

He won't grant it, instead he finally looks up, getting a lovely view of her smiling face. "The name of the nail polish, Molly," he demands. "... and you get your dignity back. I'll even put your shoe back on, if you're nice."

She shakes her head, cackling loudly, and surely this is worse than giving him the damn name? But no, she still refuses. Both hands are now holding tightly to his parents' parlor mantel as she practically shouts, "_Never!"_ through peals of laughter.

A split second later, someone (one of the caterers, no doubt) drops something heavy and glass, causing Molly's laughter to die in a gasp.

"_Sherlock," _she says in a desperate whisper. "Let go! Please, let go and I'll tell you!"

He doesn't release her foot, however, even as he hears his mother's voice carrying from two rooms away, "Oh, dear!" Mummy says, though not harshly. "At least it was yours and not mine." Pause. "Well, don't cry, child. We'll blame it on… on my friend in that awful jumpsuit. She's proper drunk; no one will question it. I'll be sure to tell your manager _she _bumped into _you_. Just… clean this up and I'll find more glasses. I keep some extra in the parlor for just such an occasion. There's a good lad."

"God, she's coming, Sherlock. We have to…"

Standing, he pulls Molly into his chest. She clearly feels like they've been doing something far naughtier than they actually were. He shares her sentiments, if he's honest, but he can't let the moment end, not yet. He lowers his head and whispers, "_Up the stairs, third door on the right."_ When Molly pulls back, eyes wide, her face still red from his tickling he adds, "Run."

And she does. Without a moment's hesitation, Molly runs awkwardly (as she's missing a shoe) from the room, up the stairs, theoretically to his childhood bedroom. He wants nothing more than to race after her. There is something primal in the mere idea of a chase that makes his blood sing and his head swim. But his cock is hard and his hands are shaking. He knows himself well enough to take a moment to gather his wits before he... Is he really about to…?

"Oh! Sherlock," his mother's voice does wonders for his _predicament_. She looks around the room, her disappointment obvious when she doesn't find her other mark present. "Molly didn't leave, did she?"

Taking a deep breath, he turns, angling himself away from the woman (as his predicament isn't completely alleviated, unfortunately). "No, Mummy," he explains, attempting a casual tone, not easy, as he's still half hard and desperate to chase after his pathologist. "She's… exploring. Don't worry, I'll go find her."

His feet are on the third step when he hears Mummy say, "Don't forget this, darling."

He looks back to see Viola Holmes, eyebrow raised, dangling a sandal from her index finger. "I'll… get it later," he says before practically sprinting up the stairs.

o0o0o0o0o

The combination of hormones and nerves manage to dislodge the frankly disturbing image of his mother (and her very smug expression) from his mind on the short trip to his old room. In a split second decision, he stops before bursting through the door. _What if she's not in there?_ There's no guarantee, of course. His breathing is ragged and if she is in the room, she can certainly hear him… dithering. Sherlock Holmes does not dither! With that, he opens the door and storms in, rather more aggressively than he had intended.

She's there.

On his bed.

A warmth suffuses him upon seeing her sat there, looking for all the world like she's _exactly _where she was meant to be all along.

Then she's quite suddenly _not _as she stands abruptly, moving towards him, her eyes flitting over his person, making Sherlock both tingle with heady anticipation and somewhat ill at ease at the same time. "Where…?" she says, looking up. "My shoe, Sherlock? Where is it?"

"It's in good hands. Rest assured." He has no idea why he's antagonising her; it cannot help his cause but just as with the _foot touching_, he can't seem to resist.

Her posture shifts, stiffens. She folds her arms over her chest and asks, "_Whose_ hands?"

"Mummy's."

"Your mother has my shoe and this is supposed to be reassuring, somehow?"

"You wanted me to bring it _here_?" His question is dripping with feigned innocence.

Cocking her head, she says, "No, Sherlock, first I wanted you to take it 'round to the other guests to see if it might fit one of _their _feet." There's no mistaking her sarcasm. And since when is Molly Hooper sarcastic?

He studies her for several seconds, thinking about her little joke. "Cinderella humour. Funny."

"Oh! Am I allowed to make jokes now?"

Her words actually make him blanch and he feels a bit colder too. It's like the sun just went behind a cloud, except they're standing inside and the temperature hasn't _really _changed. Why is she suddenly so angry? He hasn't mocked her, spoken down to her in years - before Reichenbach, before her help and his return - he hasn't and he wouldn't. She knows this, so… why? He studies her, searching for any clue. Finding none, he starts to question her but doesn't get the chance.

Her demeanor shifts once again as if what he had witnessed just moments before was nothing but a thin shield, barely held in place. Sherlock doesn't know what causes it to go up (though he suspects his out of character touching and the sudden appearance of Mummy might hold some blame). He's even more confused as to what has brought it down so quickly but Molly appears to be cracking

"_I can't go back,"_ she whispers then swallows, appears to be stifling tears. "I'm sorry. I know you - you were going to apologise and say… things that day but I couldn't." Her eyes glisten, she's losing her hold. "I still can't. She made us…" That's when the tears break free in earnest. "The words are just out there now and we can't take them back." Huffing out a mirthless laugh, she turns and walks across the room. "I didn't feel pathetic, I hadn't in a long time. I felt… useful and needed. I was your friend we had something that no one else could touch."

She turns towards him again and Sherlock tracks two tears as they slide down her cheeks. They drop, one after the other, off her chin onto her chest. Gesturing between the two of them, she says, "But she made this feel… _wrong _again." A small smile forms as she wipes her cheeks dry, or tries to. Her tears haven't gotten the idea that she wants to stop crying yet, apparently. "I know that you love me, Sherlock, I knew that already. And I could have gone my whole life not hearing it… just… knowing. Because you show it in your own odd little ways, don't you?" Clearing her throat, she averts her eyes from him as if she's steadying herself for something big, something awful.

And then he just knows, can practically see the other shoe descending from on high. He waits, wondering where the _but _is lurking? The _however_? The _unfortunately_? Because, she _knew_, scratch that, she _knows _that he loves her, but there's obviously more.

"There's love, Sherlock, and… then there's _love_," she explains, intensely studying the carpet.

_Well, that's clear as mud._ But, okay, he gets it. As emotionally impotent as he is, he gets it, except, was he alone in the parlor? Is he high or… _oh, God, have I been shot, again?_ _No-no. Haven't used since Smith and there's no actual threat here, barring Mummy, of course. _

What he doesn't understand is: what doesn't _she _understand? Because that was blatant flirting, even he - a social simpleton - can see that and he knows for a fact that he meant it, since he (intimacy idiot that he is) was the one _doing _the _flirting_. Okay, so maybe he hadn't been obvious enough and fine, perhaps Molly was right and talking would have been the thing to do before the flirting (very much avoiding the fact that Mummy had set this up for them _to talk_, not for him to molest his pathologist's feet!). He can't help but take exception, however, at her assumptions. Though it's true that he had avoided the topic, so had she. He'd had every intention of speaking to her that day in his flat; had prepared and everything! This time (perhaps for the first time in their relationship) he wasn't the only one who had buggered it all up.

Whilst he is working through the love_-love_ bullshit, Molly has walked to the door. "Do you think she left it there?" she asks. "My shoe?"

He turns on his heels and sees that she's just about to leave. _Ah, no._ There are things that must be said, clarifications at the very least. This business about love, for instance, and her willful ignorance regarding his obvious flirtation (he's standing by the obviousness!). _She's acting as if I go around stroking ladies' feet on a daily basis._ Besides, he still doesn't know the name of that damn nail polish. He slides his hands into his trouser pockets as he answers her with a nonchalance that he does not feel. "Who's to say?"

She huffs in return; she's irritated with him now. Her shifting emotions are difficult to follow but God knows he's trying. For once, he's actually trying...

"Does one _really _know what footwear get up to when left to their own devices?" It's nonsense and he knows this but his mind is processing about five different things at the moment, so he just... speaks. Normally, this would be child's play for him, except, of course, that four of those five things are emotion-based. He may have recently realised that he does indeed _feel_, quite a lot actually, but that doesn't make it any easier to process. As his mind works on this situation and Molly and love-_love_ and avoidance, his body is still reacting to her. Those toes are still lingering back there as well, haven't forgotten about the damn red toes!

Stalking closer, Sherlock zeros in on her lips and can't help licking his own. This doesn't go unnoticed by Molly. A faint gasp is released before she pulls her bottom lip between perfect little teeth. "Wh-what's that supposed to m-mean?"

And does it make him a bastard that he enjoys the triumphant return of her adorable fucking stutter? _Probably. _But he doesn't hide his smile; no use in denying his pleasure at this point. "The shoe _may _be downstairs or it _may not_." Inching forward as his next quip comes to mind, his smile widens; this a good one, if he does say so himself. "Schrödinger's shoe, as it were."

Molly is _not _amused. She seems to ponder it for a moment, looking away long enough for him to move even closer without her noticing. She's clearly trying to decide how her shoe and the cat could possibly compare. They don't, of course, but he's beyond caring. His mind has suddenly calmed, it's finished processing. He's settled on a plan of action and is now intent on recreating the atmosphere of moments before.

She looks back at him sceptically, and says, "That's an awful analogy and it makes no sense."

"I beg to differ," he tosses back casually.

He's now well within her personal space and she finally takes notice of this. Backing up, she hits the door and her eyes go wide. "O- okay, fine, whatever. Just… I should go. I should find my shoe."

"We still need to talk and you owe me something, or have you forgotten already?"

"_Owe_ you? What do I owe you?"

He brackets his hands on either side of her head and lets his eyes move over her body slowly before landing at her feet.

She seems to get the message as a nervous chuckle falls from her lips followed by, "Oh, right. We'll talk first, then."

His head snaps up. _Why is she so reluctant? _ "I could just look it up, you know."

"It'd be better than saying the actual words, believe me."

She has to know that she's just making him want it more by refusing him. "What's it called, Molly?" he asks and has moved quite close now. So closely as a matter of fact that she has to crane her neck to look him in the eyes. "Just give me the name and we'll have that talk that Mummy wants so much for us to have…"

"I've said my piece," she says, stubborn as ever. Or as she has been since _the call_, at least.

"Interestingly, Molly, I have not. I tried once, if you'll recall, and you shut me down."

"There was no need…"

"I beg to differ," he interrupts. "Now. The name."

"I don't want…"

"Molly Elane Hooper, what's the name of the damn nail polish?!"

"_**Gimme a Loddo Kisses**_**, okay!"** she shouts in his face, her eyes widening as if she's shocked even herself.

Well, he understands her reluctance now but he's not going to pass up an invitation when he's been trying for so… damn… long! Whilst she's in a state of shock, Sherlock takes full advantage of the situation, closing the distance and pressing his lips to hers.

She freezes at the contact and he knows he's made yet another mistake. The word M-I-S-C-A-L-C-U-L-A-T-I-O-N spells itself across his mind. Her lips are still, rigid, as is her body and Sherlock can _feel _her imminent rejection. Any second she'll push him away and tell him _no_, not to do such things, to take such liberties.

He draws back to find wide brown eyes and a brighter blush that cannot be attributed to any kind of make-up. Her mouth is opened, forming a perfect 'O' and he genuinely wishes she had opened it like that seconds before.

"Why?" she asks, her voice soft and raspy.

Sherlock thinks back to his prepared speech. It was good, solid. A proposal, of sorts. They fit, him and Molly, so why not give it a go? He'd meant it when he said 'I love you', he knew that as soon as the words left his lips. Surprising, yes, but true. So why not… try? There wouldn't be any other woman for him. If things couldn't work between the two of them, well, then… he'd be alone, which was fine. He'd resigned himself to that life long ago. But he wanted to try. _Couldn't they try?_ She'd looked so hurt when he had started to speak, however, and his courage had fled.

Those prepared words felt quite flat at the moment. _I'll have to wing it._

"I know the difference between love and _love_," he tells her. His hands are cupping her face. _Must have happened during that kiss,_ he thinks, but he doesn't let go, rather he combs his fingers through her soft hair.

"You do?"

"Of course I do, Molly, I'm not an idiot."

He is, actually, about this, at lease but he's spent a long time thinking about _that day_ and _those words_ and he's fairly certain he's figured it out. "I love deducing and Mrs Hudson and Rosamond and cases above a seven and even John when he's not being annoying - though I'd love him more if he'd learn how to type. I've recommended a class at the learning annex but he doesn't listen, thinks he's fine, hunting and pecking his way through that bloody blog of his."

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He's gotten off track but Molly's wide, curious eyes ground him, bring him back to his goal. "I love you too, but not like those things, not like Mrs Hudson or John. I'm… Molly, I'm in love _with_ you."

Other than a few rapid blinks, she doesn't react. _Good or bad?_ He's not sure, but he pushes onward. "I can't go back either. I don't want to - I wouldn't go back. I want to go forward… with you."

"_In_ love?" she says at length.

"Yes, that's what I said."

"Well…" More blinking. "That explains the kiss."

"I would hope."

"Oh, and the tickling!"

Sherlock smirks; inching closer he backs her against the door once again. "Yes, Molly, I've rather enjoyed your lovely toes this afternoon."

With a sharp gasp, she says, "Sherlock! Do you have a foot fetish?"

"Not in general, or not that I was aware of, but I may have developed one for your toes specifically." He grabs her hips, picking her up an inch or so off the floor. "Care to explore this new side of mine with me?"

"Here?" she asks, a scandalised look on her pretty face.

"There is a bed and a door with a lock and…"

**Bang! Bang! Bang!** "William, are you in there? Did you ever find Molly?" Viola _Erection Killer_ Holmes calls out loudly from just beyond the door.

Molly buries her face in his chest, giggling hysterically whilst Sherlock takes a deep, cleansing breath. Finally, he answers, "Yes, Mummy. She's here. We're… talking, just as you wanted."

"Oh! Well, ah, go ahead. I'll make sure you're not disturbed."

"Too late for that," he mumbles into Molly's neck, kissing the delicate skin just below her ear as he lowers her back to the floor.

"It's for -_ Ooo, Sherlock!_ \- for the best," Molly says, swallowing thickly. His distress must show on his face because she follows with, "We really should talk more and… well, your childhood bedroom isn't the ideal place for our… first… time." as she straightens her dress.

_Tell that to my penis._ "Baker Street?" he asks. "I hired a car."

"You drove?"

"It's best to have a means of escape from my parents' home, Molly. You'll need to keep that in mind for future engagements." He offers her his arm gallantly. "Shall we?"

Taking it, she smiles. "By all means, but we can't forget my shoe."

"I don't think I'll ever forget that shoe, Molly," he deadpans as they leave the room. "Now let's go find it so you can put it on and we can get out of here." Lowering his voice to a purr that made her shiver with anticipation, he adds, "And as soon as we get to 221B, I'll take them off again and give you a _lodda more_ kisses."

* * *

_The nail polish is real. It's by OPI and it's fab! No offence to Branson, Mo. I'm sure they have lovely pashminas, authentic and everything ; ) I cannot tell you how hard it has been to _eek_ out time to write in my current environment, but I'm so glad that I finally finished something. Along with my aforementioned thanks, I have to thank my amazing husband for practically forcing me into my office to finish this. He took over 'Mom Duties' and gave me the time and freedom to do something just for me. I adore that man. I could really usesome encouragement, so don't hesitate to review this one! Thanks for reading. ~Lil~!_


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